


been waiting for the sun

by CatAvalon (CazinaIna)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Come Marking, Come Sharing, Dating, Desert, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Love, M/M, Non-Verbal Fic, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Slow Dancing, Sweat and Sunshine, The Sun Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CazinaIna/pseuds/CatAvalon
Summary: He's always loved the weight of Shiro against him, whether through sparring or moments of intimacy: the sheer size of him, the breadth of his shoulders and the hardness of his chest pressing him down. It makes him feel alive in a way nothing else can compare, the beat of a heart against his, the exchanging of heady breath between them.And Keith wants to feel alive.*Or, Keith and Shiro finally find a pocket of time for themselves and fuck out in the desert.





	been waiting for the sun

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer; mildly edited from where it was first published in the vld greater secrets tarot zine- my tarot was the sun which i thought was perf for my fav desert boys
> 
> even bigger disclaimer; this fic is way dirtier than i remember it being. it's my instinct to apologise but y'know, i think y'all will like it lmao
> 
> title taken from a paramore song yet again, if any of y'all know which one, tell me and i'll love you forever (and no it doesn't come up on google if you type the title in, i see y'all cheaters)
> 
> my tarot was the sun!

Keith's used to cold now, the controlled climate of a ship, the neutral emptiness of space. His desert skin never fully accepted the cool, always raised with the ghost of goosebumps, fingertips perpetually numb. It took time but Keith grew used to it, slipping his hands into the warm cove of his underarms disguised as simply crossing his arms. Sometimes he even liked it, a constant reminder that he was feeling, that he was alive. That _they_ were alive.

(He liked slipping into Shiro’s quarters at what passed as night, two yearning bodies beneath one blanket burrowing for warmth.)

Earth had seemed like a distant memory, a fantasy even, after their time away. Keith hadn’t thought twice about how the atmosphere smelt before, but it’s all he can focus on now, waiting outside the Garrison for a familiar silhouette. Not clean, especially after the war, but clearer. If he wanted to be clichéd, Keith would say it was the scent of freedom- but he doesn’t. It doesn’t stop him noticing, though, as he drags another full breath into his lungs and lets it simmer deep behind his ribs.

Shiro doesn’t say anything when he joins Keith but he rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. It slips to settle at his waist as they walk, the weight of his touch although familiar still unfurling heat deep beneath Keith's skin. It holds the same intense intimacy as it would if they were unclothed, a small gesture no one would spare a second glance at that's possessive in nature to them.

Keith presses a secret smile against Shiro's shoulder.

They take one bike, not that he minds. Keith likes racing Shiro through the desert but he likes the feeling of Shiro wrapped around him just as much. He drives and Shiro occupies his time dipping his fingers beneath Keith’s shirt, scraping his nails against his navel and _digging_ when Keith accelerates hard. He likes it, the stab of pain followed by an apologetic caress of a soothing thumb. Shiro needn’t apologise, though; Keith will take him however he gives himself; wanton or worshipping, pliant or possessive.

They reach their spot- Keith’s little shack conveniently hidden in the middle of nowhere, a rough and shambles that can be glanced over and never truly registered. Keith registers it, though, as their spot of freedom, their first night away from responsibility in years. _Home_ , he’d even go as far to call it, for it was for quite some time. His scant belongings probably still lay inside, unless a scavenger has come and taken them for their own. He doesn’t hold much hope, but he isn't upset about it; he has everything he needs right beside him.

Shiro doesn’t lead him inside, though. Instead, he loops a pinkie through his and takes him around the side of the shack. It wasn’t ever much of a garden no matter how hard Keith tried, scraggly plantlings from the time he had tried (and failed) to coax tomato seeds to life, a few planks of sunbleached wood held together in vain with buckling nails held up by two fortunately placed boulders. 

It's nothing but weeds, now. Weeds and, woven within crooks and cracks, the soft glow of twinkling light.

Shiro's decorated _somehow._  Keith takes it all in with parted lips, flickering fairy lights strung from the eaves, candles and desert flowers nestled on the bench. Keith’s not one for romance, hasn’t ever needed grand gestures to feel appreciated, but he understands, now, why others may. It leaves a fuzzy warmth in his veins, subtle and soft, the same kind of heat he feels when Shiro holds his hand in front of the world. Understated, but natural. He doesn’t inquire why or how, never being one to ask questions with obvious answers.

(Because Shiro loves him, and the meetings he had all day were most likely fabricated. Keith isn’t mad that he lied, though.)

It's beautiful, he can't deny that, a little area of light amongst the darkness of the setting sun. Shiro presses his lips to Keith's hairline and lets them linger, pride broadening his breast. Keith lets him have this moment, shows his appreciation by resting a palm against Shiro's stubbled cheek and letting his fingers get lost in the lengths of his hair.

They break apart to watch the sun sink beneath the horizon, swallowed by sand dunes and the first stars blinking across the sky. It always was Keith's favourite thing about this place, the endless clear sky free from light pollution, how easy it is to make out constellations. He seeks Ursa Major and Minor whilst Shiro steps inside, then Orion and what Shiro's called his constellation, Scorpius. _My heart_ , he'd always murmured, pointing to the brightest star and then resting his hand over the left part of Keith's chest. He's always been able to feel it, whenever he looked up at the night sky, the heaviness of his touch, the soft caress of his skin.

He looks up now and it's impossible to think that he was up there too not only weeks before, so incredibly small in comparison to the stars he shared the sky with, yet up there all the same. He wonders how Shiro feels, whether he's wistful or if there's a longing that tugs deep in his veins. Sometimes Keith can't discern the two. Sometimes he wonders if they're the same thing.

Shiro returns with a basket and a blanket. He shakes the woven tartan free of sand just for it to collect more once it's settled on the ground. Keith smiles, endeared, and kneels next to him, chuckling when Shiro begins to play Sinatra from his datapad, the epitome of romance.

Dinner al fresco is nothing more than a bottle of white and sandwiches with the crusts hacked off. Not for Keith's benefit- after everything physically and mentally Shiro's been through, he still can't bring himself to consume the _burnt bits of bread_. Keith doesn't mind, though, perfectly happy passing the bottle between them whilst they eat, occasional tasting wine from a lip softer than that crafted from glass.

They dance after, when the alcohol has loosened Keith's inhibitions and there seems to be no better idea than swaying in Shiro's arms. It's something he's never done, moved against another like this, chests flush and fingers interlocked. Shiro makes it easy though, guides him in the same way Keith's been following for years, slow and gentle yet completely assured. His cheek finds its home in the curve of Shiro's shoulder, and Shiro's chin finds its own pressed into the top of Keith's hair, breath warm against his scalp.

The temperature drops, and even when the wind begins to bite at their skin, they continue to sway. Shiro begins to twirl Keith by the hand until he's laughing and dips him low just to feel the sound vibrating through his throat with a brush of his mouth. He holds Keith suspended, supported by nothing more than the sheer strength of both his physical form and his love, before their lips finally meet.

Shiro kisses him slow and deep, just like he dances, how he still holds Keith in his arms. It's dizzying, defying gravity as he presses back against Shiro's palm but up into the heat of his mouth, his tongue that lures sighs from his lungs. The angle grows increasingly harder to work against, and they fall to the blanket in a tangle of limbs, longing and laughter. Keith kisses the sound from Shiro's mouth until it's nothing more than a shuddered gasp, a breath that's hot against his skin and even hotter behind his ribs.

He breaks away to stare up at the sky, at the gentle curve of the crescent moon as Shiro's mouth leaves identical marks into the delicate skin of his throat. His fingers wind in Shiro's hair, and Keith holds him close until the ache at his neck is almost as unbearable as the ache between his legs.

They part long enough to pack up and head inside for the night. At the door, Keith kicks off his boots and begins unbuttoning his jacket just for Shiro to stop him. He tugs on hands still working around a button, and Keith follows him deeper into the shack to the single bedroom he slept in, yearning, for over a year. It's untouched, from the corkboards and paper clippings to the knife marks embedded into the walls. He feels like a ghost haunting his own rooms, looking in on the memories of another. It all seems so distant now after everything he's seen.

The bed is the only thing that's different. Keith smells the freshness of the laundry detergent as Shiro backs him onto the mattress, a thigh between his knees, smile playful. Keith fists at Shiro's collar and tugs, pulling him down on top of him, no barriers, no restraint. He's always loved the weight of Shiro against him, whether through sparring or moments of intimacy: the sheer size of him, the breadth of his shoulders and the hardness of his chest pressing him down. It makes him feel alive in a way nothing else can compare, the beat of a heart against his, the exchanging of heady breath between them.

And Keith wants to feel alive, wants Shiro to fuel the fire in his veins.

Their hands fumble between them. Buttons rip and clatter across the hardwood, jackets are pushed from shoulders, replaced with the sharp sting of teeth claiming muscle as _mine_ . Keith writhes and arches, grinds his clothed crotch into a thigh, twists in Shiro's hold until his touch trails lower and presses just above his waistband. Close, but not close enough. Keith isn't one to beg, isn't one for praying either, but he finds himself wishing to a God of _something_ for Shiro to dip his fingers lower, over the fabric clothing his erection or under, he isn't fussy at this point.

Shiro pulls back with a smile that teases. _Patience yields focus_ , Keith's mind supplies, spoken in the calm timbre of Shiro's voice. But that's the point; Keith doesn't want to focus, he wants to _feel_ , wants to make up for the months and years that they couldn't have this. Just as Keith thinks he's going insane with want, Shiro's fingers ghost over his clothed erection. It elicits a noise Keith didn't even know he could make, a moan that verges on whining caught high in the back of his throat. It's the encouragement Shiro needs to finally rid them of the last of their clothes and they're stripped bare before each other with nothing but the moonlight dressing them.

Shiro breathes his name, breathes it against his skin, against his mouth as he tastes his own on Keith's lips. There's a balance between them that would be unstable with anyone else; when Keith pushes up, takes control and presses Shiro down onto his back, it isn't a losing fight but a battle shared. They're equals, always have been even with ranks and years between them. It's the mutual respect, Keith thinks, that made him fall for Shiro. He feels it now, when he's straddling Shiro's thighs, a hand on his cheek seeking permission, another at his hip, not touching despite the red-hot desperation between them until Keith nods his consent.

Their touches are slow, reverent, names breathed in prayer as they move against each other. Shiro has a hand around them both, stroking in time to the grinding of Keith's hips. When their lips meet, it's in hot, fumbling kisses, clumsy and open-mouthed, tooth and tongue and too much breath as Shiro continues to take and take with his roaming fist.

Keith's fingers cling for purchase at Shiro's back, slipping over taut muscle and sweat-sheened skin until he gives in and _claws_. His nails bite deep but Shiro's answering moan is deeper. It's a startling contrast to the otherwise hush in the room, loud amongst the rustle of bed sheets, the rush of breath and slide of their bodies against each other, and Keith wants more. He nips at Shiro's jaw, bites at the tendon in his neck until he's shuddering beneath him, drags his nails down his spine as he moans Keith's name, until he begs.

Keith answers. His hand joins Shiro's around them and he revels in the feel of their mixed pre-release seeping through Shiro's fingers. It's slick enough but Keith still spits on his palm, gives them that something more in the form of his saliva smearing over their skin too. He makes a show of it, too, leaves his lips glossy before dipping down and kissing Shiro deep and desperate and pulling back hotter and wetter.

Keith knows Shiro's secret, knows that this man who prides himself on being clean-cut and commendable in front of others loves being dirtied however Keith chooses to mark him. He licks at Shiro's neck, nips at the shell of his ear as pleasure builds between them, unfurling deep in his groin, hot under his skin. His teeth sharpen, press into the soft flesh of his lip until there's copper on his tongue that leaves rosewater stains wherever his mouth trails.

Shiro comes first. Keith expects it, has always had better stamina than him, and uses the extra slick of Shiro's release to jerk himself to completion. He draws away before the moment hits, pushes Shiro down further so he can move up his chest and stroke himself until he's spilling hot over Shiro's heart. Their foreheads rest together as they pant, Shiro's hand moving to cover the wetness on his skin and then to press it into Keith's own. His pulse hammers under Shiro's palm. He feels wanted, loved.

It's nearly enough.

There's something missing, though, in the darkness, the stars suspended above them, visible in the cracks in the roof. It feels too similar, too much like those empty years in space, breathing in the afterglow that isn't really glowing at all. Keith tries not to dwell on what's lost, though, lets himself bathe in the _I love yous_ Shiro confesses into his collar as the evidence of their love dries on their skin.

(It's not that Keith isn't satisfied. He's happy with whatever piece of him Shiro gives, will take what's offered until it there's nothing left and will keep loving him regardless. He just expected it to be different. Brighter, burning. Years of yearning building between them, colliding into something blinding, not this sleepy tenderness that has Keith drifting before today can become tomorrow.)

They struggle against slumber long enough to pull a duvet over their heads. Beneath the covers, Keith breathes in the scent of Shiro's skin, their intermingling sex and the residue traces of cologne dampened down by sweat. _Them_. No one else can experience this, can share this intimacy with them. Keith burrows down, tastes Shiro one last time with a lazy swipe of his tongue, and lets the night continue without them.

*

It's there when he awakens, a realisation that doesn't come as a surprise.

He's always been a desert child, something untameable and free. He's lived so many of his days out here, fiery, fierce and fast. He's been waiting for this, waiting for the sun to shine through the cracks in the curtains, to kiss the bare skin of his back and lift him into consciousness. He's been waiting to rouse Shiro with insistent kisses, to lead him outside by the hand so they can soak up the warmth in their nakedness and bask in its rising glory. It's what they were missing, in the loneliness of space, amber rays, the intermingling warmth of light and love.

They fuck out there on the sand in the early heat of dawn, wild and raw. Sweat builds between them and makes their kisses taste of salt, dirt clinging to their skin and smearing between, gritty on Keith's tongue as he mouths up Shiro's chest and bites at the cum stained nipple over Shiro's heart. Their groans mix with the calls of nature around them, swallowed up by the wind and spat out around the canyons, trapped in the gaps between their skin. Sand bites Keith's knees as he straddles Shiro's head, as he's licked open and devoured, as his first orgasm drips to the Earth.

It hurts when Shiro pushes in with only spit and a tongue to loosen him, but Keith hasn't ever been afraid of pain, not physically. It's nothing in comparison to the tears in his heart caused by two traitorous words and a lie that broke his world. He doesn't want to think of that now, instead wants to let Shiro's thrusts and the push of his fingers through Keith's hair seal the wounds, golden like the sun that bleeds over their skin.

Shiro takes him hard and fast, like the way he rides free over the desert. He grips Keith's wrists like he does the handlebar of his bike, holds them above his head as he fucks him just right, deep and steady in a way that has Keith's back arching up from the dirt. He's already sensitive from the first orgasm, can feel tears clouding the corner of his eyes, dripping to catch in his open mouth as Shiro beats into him and the sun beats down on them.

Keith comes first this time, with Shiro's mouth at his temple and the sky stretching above him. He blinks up at the cloudless expanse as Shiro's hips begin to falter, as his breath sputters hot against his face and he comes deep inside him. They pant, glance down at their sticky skin, at the grit and grime that smears across them, perfectly mirrored from the press of their bodies.

And then they laugh, fine and free.

Shiro rolls so that they're both sprawled on their backs and pulls Keith to rest against his shoulder. It's strange now that it's over, being exposed like this. Keith doesn't think his body has ever taken in so much sun;  it won't be long before his skin prickles and begins to redden under the glare. For a moment, though, they bathe in it, the warmth of the light and the ground beneath their backs.

"Keith," Shiro breathes, caressing the scar on his cheek.

Keith leans up to kiss him, lingering against his mouth before brushing his lips against the bridge of Shiro's nose. Nothing burns hotter than Shiro's name, building on his tongue and flowing through the blood in his veins. "Shiro."

They leave sunburnt, the pain searing yet a tangible reminder of the intensity of their love.

  


**Author's Note:**

> please call me out for how gross six month ago me was i'll thoroughly enjoy every second of it
> 
> as always, thank you to meggo and tori for listening to me whine, and gemma for listening to me saying i'm gonna write and then shaming me when i don't- ly!
> 
> i'll have some other back works coming soon!
> 
> find me here:
> 
> [ zeldaismyhomegirl](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> [ @ItsCatAvalon](http://twitter.com/ItsCatAvalon)  
> xoxo cat


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